Page 44 of Requiem & Reverie

The unyielding sensation that he was being watched crawled up The Sandman’s spine, and he turned to see the shelves stocked with his beautiful animal creations staring back at him. Red foxes, raccoons, various species of birds. All gazes steady like those of an audience.

With thin hooks and clamps set to pry back the lids, he slid a pair of curved tenotomy scissors down along the eyeball, and began cutting away at the muscles on either side. Snip. Snip. Snip. Red petechiae dotted the underside of the eyelid, with minimal bleeding into the eyeball itself—the only downside to asphyxiation, which in all honesty, wasn’t his preferred method of disposal. Nonetheless, it avoided unnecessary exposure to fluids, and could be carried out fairly quickly.

It’d taken years of practicing on European mounts to learn his technique, and unlike some taxidermy enthusiasts, who made slop out of the eyeball, his goal was to keep it as intact as possible. To preserve that final descent to the other side.

When all muscles had been cut, he severed the optic nerve, setting the organ loose, and placed two quick sutures at either side of the iris, to use as lifts for pulling it out of the socket. It slipped out easily, and he staunched the blood with gauze, packing it tight, until he was finished with the other eye.

The second popped out as easily as the first, and The Sandman collected his treasures in the jar of formalin beside him. Pressing them down onto the display spikes he’d placed at the bottom of the jar ensured both would always be staring back at him simultaneously. Those final moments forever trapped in the irises.

He wouldn’t be filling her sockets with the bone meal he reserved for his other subjects, nor offering a Queen of the Night for her journey. Her body would either be dumped carelessly, left to the mercy of starving animals and decay, or burned, just to eliminate the evidence. He hadn’t decided what to do with her, yet. Either way, there’d be nothing special, or meaningful, about her sacrifice, and that troubled him most.

Removing the clamps from her eyelids, he lowered them back over the empty sockets. He dabbed away the miniscule amount of blood with the gauze and sighed.

A waste, as far as he was concerned.

16

Nola

Warmth slides across my face, as sunlight pounds against my forehead, like it’s trying to break into my skull. I open my eyes and immediately shield out the light, wishing for the darkness again. Days remind me of hours spent uselessly pacing and wandering, but the night, I wear like a shroud. A heavy cloak that ensures the light will never touch me again.

Except, it does. And this morning it’s different.

This morning, the air is filled with a spicy, masculine scent, and some distant feeling of hope.

“You’re awake.” Voss’s voice rumbles in my ear, but I can’t bring myself to lift my head from his chest and show my face. He caught me at a weak moment the night before, one I’m too ashamed to address right now.

“I am.”

“You slept a good eight hours. It’s after eight.”

Eyes closed, I push myself off of him and shake my head. “I’m sorry. About last night.”

“Sorry about what?”

“Everything.” Muscles sagging, I open my eyes, but keep my gaze downward, where his cock sticks up from his slacks and only one of my legs is covered by my pants, my underwear wound around my thigh.

We look ridiculous. Like two teenagers who finally had a night when our parents weren’t around. Irresponsible and reckless—all the things I don’t need right now.

“I find it interesting … the only times you ever apologize for something is when you surrender yourself to something.”

“What?”

“The night at the bar. You said you were trying to cut loose and relax. When you cooked me dinner and got a little drunk. This morning. Did you ever stop to think, maybe you needed that?”

“To fuck you while I was drunk and my son’s somewhere suffering at the hands of a killer? No, I don’t think I needed that, Voss.” I try to push away from him, but he grabs my thighs, yanking me back.

“You know it was more than fucking. What happened last night doesn’t happen very often, and it sure as hell doesn’t happen with me.”

My brain, the skeptical bitch that it is, tries to imagine how he benefits from all of this, because I’m convinced men like Voss don’t have meaningful sex. It’s all mindless and selfish. “It was a drunken mistake.”

“Call it what you want, Nola. Bottom line? It meant something.”

It’s almost humorous, the way he’s trying to make something of my weakness. A moment in my darkness when I let myself sink further into oblivion. I used him. I used his cock to torment myself, to make me feel dirty and worthless, on top of everything else. “C’mon, Voss. Don’t make me do this.”

“Do what? You don’t think I know that last night was about Oliver? Doesn’t matter what made you do it. Doesn’t take away how good it felt.”

“Good? I thought you had to simulate rape to feel good.”